Exalted
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Wandering the land that should have been their homeland is not a particularly easy experience for Leas or his brother.


The trouble starts almost the minute they leave the camp on the Path of Flame.

They have only just entered the Exalted Plains, but the whole place already feels wrong somehow. The dead trees run nearly as far as the eye can see and stand like sentinels, silently judging them (or perhaps only the humans) as they approach. On either side of them are statues bearing eternal flames, and though Dorian is hardly what one would call an elven champion, they still seem out of place. Iselen glares up at them as they pass them by.

"Can I get some water so I can _extinguish_ these eternal flames?" he mutters to Leas, the words coming out as sharp as a whip. Cassandra sighs, clearly insulted and not comprehending his anger, but Dorian is no less impressed. Far be it from him to protest Iselen wandering around the Exalted Plains with his brother, and the man has the right to be angry, but it will be a long trip if he insists on going on like this.

Leas chuckles, but the sound is wrong, almost forced. "I like the idea," he says, "but no. We're here to see why there's been no word from Gaspard and Celene's armies. Putting out the flames is a waste of time."

"Not much of a waste," Iselen says. "I'd love to see the looks on the _shemlen_'s faces… Could do with a laugh."

"You'll have to find it elsewhere," Leas tells him with a shake of his head. "Not here. Seeing what I see… I'm not inclined to laugh."

Iselen sighs and casts his gaze around. "True. Let's get on with it, then," he says, and they hurry forward.

Hardly a minute later, however, they come across a small stone statue before a ruined arch. Leas pauses to read it, as does Iselen, and Dorian stands just off to one side, observing their facial expressions. At once, Leas' brows knit together, and he pouts and stares at the statue like a kicked puppy, obviously hurt. Iselen, meanwhile, bares his teeth and clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring.

"Halamshiral's dark heart! Wonderful!" he snarls. "Lying _shemlen_ bastards! All because we had the temerity to be free and not worship your blasted Maker! Who has the darker hearts, I wonder?"

Dorian grimaces and catches Cassandra's gaze. They share a look of, 'Here we go…' while Leas pats his brother on the shoulder.

"_Elvyr, isa'ma'lin._ We are hardly out of the camp," he says soothingly. "I know this is terrible, but if you let the rage get to you so quickly, you'll explode. Let us focus on the present, yes?"

"_Somebody_ must care," Iselen snaps, folding his arms. "Do you expect the _shemlen_ to? This should have been our _home_, but—"

Leas turns and puts both his hands on his brother's shoulders. "_Eolasan,_" he says. "_Mar'abelas re emma tas._ But we cannot let the sorrow for the _Dirtha'var'en_ distract us now, or we'll be here all day."

Iselen seems to consider for a moment, then sighs and nods. "As you say," he mutters, and Leas offers him a reassuring smile. They head off again, past the offending monument, which Dorian spares a moment to read and subsequently shakes his head at ('dark heart?' And here he'd thought the Chantry had already reached the apex of self-delusion), and into the Plains proper. As they go, the brothers murmur prayers in elven. Dorian catches only the names of their gods and a few other words, not enough to guess at what they are saying. Still, he can imagine it.

Up close, the Exalted Plains are even worse than they seemed from a distance. The trees have been stripped bare and stand like gravestones rather than sentinels. The ground rots and is littered with weapons and armour, and it stinks of death to the point where the smell goes up his nose and down his throat and almost makes him retch. It is silent but for the occasional horn blast, and nothing else that they can see appears to be moving. But what makes it worse is that there are traces of beauty here, in the colour of the grass and the vastness of the plains and the still-living trees, some distance off. A land of exceptional beauty this must once have been, Dorian realises, before—

"_Shemlen,_" Iselen growls, his rage provoked again, as they pass the mutilated carcass of a halla. "Look what they have done to this place!"

After, there is quiet for a little while, broken only by the twins' prayers and the occasional words they speak to each other in their own tongue. Eventually, however, they come within sight of the western ramparts, and the undead that are attacking them, and Leas raises his voice to deliver some orders to them all. For some time after, there is considerable noise as they retake the ramparts from the undead that all but swarm it. In a way, it's almost as disturbing as the silence: necromancer he may be, but the last time Dorian heard so many moans and growls like these was in the Fallow Mire, and he's not so fond of that place, either.

Suffice it to say, the fighting does nothing to calm Iselen. Indeed, he appears to be even angrier after Leas has blown the horn. "Look at it all," he says, clenching his fists on the bannister and glaring out over the ramparts. "Look at what you have done. Was it not enough to take this place from us? Did you need to destroy it as well? It will be decades before it is fit for habitation again, surely!"

Cassandra sighs again, and Dorian shakes his head. "I doubt the armies warring here raised all the undead," he says tightly.

"They desecrated _our_ ground with their impure blood," Iselen says, baring his teeth and looking daggers at Dorian. "That is bad enough. They fight over land that is not theirs! The Freemen fight for control of something they _stole!_"

"The Freemen are tired of the civil war, and _they_ did not steal the Dales from your people," Cassandra says, and Iselen turns his spiteful gaze on her.

"They are thieves, one and all, those _shemlen_ who live on the _Dirtha'var'en_. It hardly matters if they did not actively steal it. And tire though they might of their petty war, they will care nothing for the butchery our people have endured and _still_ endure. Much like you, Seeker. So excuse me if I don't give half a rat's ass about them. Why are we even bothering, Leas?"

Leas shoots them all a pained, apologetic smile. "We are _bothering_ because we must restabilise Orlais. Corypheus could easily take advantage of something like a horde of undead. We must not give him that chance."

Iselen snorts. "Who gives a shit? Let him _burn_ Orlais. Nothing of value will be lost."

"But the Dales themselves," Leas reminds him while Dorian rolls his eyes and Cassandra lets out her patented disgusted noise. "The nation is too powerful, Iselen. If it falls, the entire world falls with it, our people included."

"And the innocents of Orlais?" Dorian puts in. "Are they not 'of value'?"

"I see only thieves," Iselen tells him. "Even in the commoners. Thieves, rapists, butchers, whose only care is for massacring my people and playing their stupid little game of one-upmanship. Burn Orlais and leave the Dales, kill the Orlesians, and the world would be so much the better for it."

Dorian shakes his head and stares at Leas. "Leas, sometimes I worry about your brother's sanity," he says, ignoring Iselen's contemptuous laughter.

Leas raises his hands defensively, though he shoots Iselen a pleading look. "He's just angry," he says. "And his anger is justified. Let him blow off steam—I can't silence him here, in this place that would have been our home but for Orlesian expansionism." Dorian sighs and takes the point.

"If it helps, Iselen," Leas continues. "Think of it as us saving the _Dirtha'var'en_, keeping it from further desecration. Think not of the people, but of the land itself."

"That is not how _you_ think," Iselen says pointedly.

"No, but if it helps, consider that we are trying to clean the place up. When we're done, it may have regained some of its former beauty. Is that comfort enough?" Iselen again considers, then slowly nods. At that moment, Cassandra catches sight of the Orlesian soldiers approaching the ramparts, and they head down to the entrance to greet them and help them set up.

* * *

After, Iselen remains quiet for some time, though Dorian hardly needs to glance at him to know he remains in a foul mood; he practically _oozes_ it. Leas seems calmer, but that might well be untrue, for he is far better than his brother at concealing his (negative) emotions, and the more he sees of the Plains, the more Dorian can understand why both of the twins would be justified in fury. If the _Centrum_, the heartland of Tevinter, the land that they have always kept from the Ancient Age onwards, had been unfairly taken from his people, and he had returned to find it so despoiled, he would be livid too. So he keeps his mouth shut, and he tries not to feel too exasperated by Iselen's occasional mutterings.

For a period, there is calm among the group, even despite the desolate landscape and the hordes of demons and undead. Then they come to the final memorial to the Second Exalted March.

The other two memorials between the first and the last had caused a stir, naturally, provoking Iselen's wrath all over again and shaking Leas' equanimous mask off his face just long enough for Dorian to espy the deep hurt that the words caused him. Dorian, meanwhile, had observed them in disgust, while wondering if the title of 'most self-deluded people and greatest psychological projectors on the face of Thedas' now belonged to Tevinter or the Chantry, a question he had wisely kept to himself. Cassandra had not initially understood, but after Leas had bid her read the memorials a few times and explained the history from the elven perspective, she had seemed greatly troubled, as if only now were her eyes opening to the truth. Still, all those emotions had been contained in the span of a few minutes on both occasions, and they had soon moved on, though Iselen had seemed a little angrier and Leas a little more solemn, and their prayers afterwards had rung louder in the air and for longer.

Now they arrive at the last, in the ruins of Ville Montevelan, and Dorian steels himself for whatever self-deluded offensiveness the Chantry intends offer this time. Cassandra joins the brothers to read alongside them, as Leas had asked her to do, and from off to the side, Dorian reads, "Remember the triumph over the profane. Sister Amity led the march to the river Tenasir, where stood shrines to the elven gods. These she struck down; standing upon the banks, she sang the Chant of Light. Andraste's Word had come to the Dales, and delivered them from wickedness."

_Oh. Charming,_ he thinks, for want of anything else _to_ think, and he shakes his head. To his right, Iselen gives a cry of rage, and Cassandra stares as though she's been slapped in the face, as though she's now seeing something she never had before, and Leas buries his face in his hands for a moment.

"Profane—wickedness!" Iselen growls. "Memorialising striking down our shrines! Glamorising—you bastards, you—" He quickly loses all coherency in his ire and lets out a stream of what Dorian can only presume are elven swearwords. Then he winds himself up, lifts his foot off the ground, and pulls it back.

Leas grabs him before he can do anything else. "If you kick it, the only thing you'll damage is your toe," he says, gently. The mask already seems to be back on, which is rather surprising, all things considered. Dorian could hardly blame him if he tried to set the stone on fire.

"I don't bloody _care_, let me—bastards, the lot of them—" Iselen's voice rises to a scream. Leas grapples with him, trying to restrain him; Iselen struggles against his hands, mouth twisted into an almost feral snarl. "_Let me bloody_—I want to tear that thing down, all of it—"

"I'll see what I can do when we get back to Skyhold!" Leas says. "I have that authority! But you know it wouldn't change much!"

Iselen finally goes still, but a black hatred is in every plane of his face. "No, it wouldn't. Nothing would," he says.

A pause. "And the Chantry says the Imperium is the root of all evil," Dorian mutters.

Almost at once, he realises he ought to have kept that thought to himself; only the firmness of Leas' grip prevents Iselen from whirling on him. "Isn't it? _You_ destroyed my people! Even now, you treat us like animals and property! I'm sure you personally never saw elves as anything other than slaves to be seen and not heard before you came south! And we thought we found brothers in arms when we rose up against the Imperium, but how did the Chantry repay us for our help? They destroyed us again, and they glorify it! Glorify their brutality!" Here, Iselen breaks away from his brother and begins to pace.

"Isn't that what you do, all of you?" he continues. "Revel in your flaws, _exalt_ them? You brought the Blight, you destroyed our people, you war against everything you do not understand, your little war between the mages and the templars tore the lands apart, you desecrate the _Dirtha'var'en_ with your impure blood, you treat my people like _animals_ or property. Worse than that, perhaps. Savages, all of you! You destroy everything you touch! You shouldn't be bothering with them, Leas!"

Leas shakes his head. "We've had this argument before," he says tiredly. "I say again, people can change. It won't happen in our lifetimes, but if we get the ball rolling…"

"It's been a thousand years. Nothing has changed! There's only one way to save our people, but you will not even consider it, _da'lath'in_—"

"I will not consider any solution that involves wholesale slaughter! A new empire for us cannot be built on the bones of the humans, as theirs are built on ours! It would make us hardly any better—"

"It would _make_ no difference. They have done everything in the world to deserve it," Iselen speaks over him, folding his arms. "They cannot even _rule_ their lands. The world as it is is a shadow of Elvhenan. What good have the humans done that we were not capable of? Have they done anything other than bring misery and suffering? Why do they deserve to keep their lands?"

Leas rubs his forehead again. "They're people, Iselen, just like us," he says patiently, while Dorian glances at Cassandra, both of them shaking their heads. "They're as good and as flawed as we are. They're not that different."

"They're monsters, all of them," Iselen says. "No different from the darkspawn but that they can think. Tell me, is there any difference between the Blight and the Sack of Halamshiral?"

Leas sighs. "I cannot answer that, not having seen the latter. I can only say that what I see here now is still not as bad as what I saw in Ferelden. Besides, humans can be negotiated with. Darkspawn cannot. If you don't believe that, it's because you've never tried."

"There's no _point!_" Iselen yells. "They will never be our allies, and they will never leave us be! Why cannot you comprehend that?"

Cassandra breaks in here. "Why, exactly, would we want to negotiate with someone who sees us as uniformly evil?" she says acidly. While her point is sound, Dorian is more than seventy per cent sure Iselen will bite her head off for it.

"I only speak the truth, which you are content to ignore," he says at once, turning his now contemptuous gaze on her. It is the look of a man who is right and knows he is right. As he speaks, he jabs his finger at her. "Do not pretend my words carry the same weight as what your people have _done_. Your countries are all awash in elven blood, and you don't fucking _care_. You certainly don't care—all our lives mean nothing in the face of your precious, sainted Chantry! You hear so often of the Exalted March, of how our cities were destroyed, our people slaughtered en masse or else forced to convert at the point of a sword! The city elves, flat-ears though they may be, _starve_ in the alienages and are still murdered en masse in Orlais, by the benediction of the Chantry! You know all this, but when's the last time you saw a human who cared? You don't! You see, but none of you care! If anything, you take _pride_ in it! You're all fucking monsters and _vermin_, bringing only destruction and leaving nothing in your wake but misery, all to gain the attention of a god who threw tantrums and abandoned the world when it turned out to be not as perfect as He desired, and I hope you _all_ rot in the Void!"

Dorian rolls his eyes again. "You self-righteous ass," he mutters, though what truly stings about Iselen's words, as always, is that they have more than the ring of truth to them. "_I_ do not deny that human crimes are many, but do you truly think elves are better?" Also perhaps not the wisest thing to say, but it is not the humans who Iselen has the greatest misconceptions about.

"Oh, absolutely," Iselen says, like it is a fact of life. Next to him, Leas groans and buries his face in his hands again. "We have suffered so long—we would never dream of doing such things to our people. And even in the days of Arlathan—this place of love—I'm sure such things were unheard of. There is no way of knowing, but you don't see the Dalish or the flat-ears committing such horrors as the humans—or the dwarves and Qunari—have done, do you? We _are_ better, and we _deserve_ Thedas. You deserve _nothing_."

Dorian rubs his temple to fight off the oncoming headache. "How very naïve of you…" he murmurs, but at the same time, Leas speaks.

"_Din'el, _Iselen," he says tiredly. "We are here for a job, not to argue about elven righteousness and human wickedness. Please, restrain yourself. If you do not think they will listen, why are you bothering?"

Iselen shakes his head. "I don't know," he says, harsh as ever. "I honestly don't know. Maybe some foolish part of me thinks they can understand…"

"I understand, and I'm sure Dorian does too," Cassandra says, while Dorian nods sharply. "But if you _truly_ believe your people would not commit such atrocities… An absence of evidence does not mean there are no such occurrences in your own history."

Iselen scowls and looks away. "It was called Arlathan for a reason. And the Dalish have next to none of the prejudice that the _shemlen_ do, or the cruelty, or the abuse of power. Nor do we tell stories of Keepers destroying their clans in pursuit of higher goals like you _shemlen_ do with your great lords. Actually, the Keepers _we_ remember are wise and good— when's the last time you heard of a kindly Orlesian lord? And if we ever got a nation, we would be gentler, kinder, better to our people, and the commoners would not be as downtrodden as they are here in Orlais. We would _rule_ those lands, too, not waste time with gross conspicuous consumption and constant infighting, while it would never occur to you to do the same. That should tell you something, shouldn't it?"

"Keep believing that if it makes you sleep better at night," Dorian says. "But I doubt your ancestors were as squeaky clean as you think."

"I'm of a mind with Dorian," Leas says, speaking over his brother. "Come on, we've tarried long enough. Let's get out of here. I think a trip to Halin'sulahn is in order…"

"_Please,_" Iselen says, and they turn and head back towards the southern Exalted Plains. As they leave, Dorian gazes around at the wreckage of Ville Montevelan, and he wonders how much justice there is in this village falling to ruin after what happened here so many centuries ago.

* * *

The next night, in the Dalish encampment, while Iselen speaks and laughs with his fellow warriors and some of the hunters, while he seems cocky and charming (much like his brother) rather than arrogant and self-righteous, Dorian sidles up to Leas. Leas stands on the periphery, almost, and Dorian has not failed to notice how most of the elves in this clan give him a wide berth. Nor has he failed to notice the reception he received when they arrived, how he was greeted with distrust on account of leading a human organisation, and how not even his presentation of the schematics for the armour of the arcane warriors to the clan's craftsmaster was enough to endear him to them, though his stock with them did go up as a result. He seems strangely isolated, and while Dorian is hardly familiar with the Dalish, he cannot help but wonder how it can be this way. Has the word of how he champions the elves not reached these Dalish? What does it matter if the Inquisition is primarily human?

Still, that is not for him to judge. He knows nothing.

"I'm surprised you're not among them," he says to Leas by way of greeting, noting the drink that Leas holds in his hands—Dalish ale, perhaps. "I expected you to be chatting them up, making friends as easily as you breathe, the same way that you do at Skyhold."

Leas smiles and sips his ale. "I'll be making friends with them when I help with those tasks they gave to me," he says. "For now, I am a stranger who has spent too much time in the company of _shemlen_."

"Surely they must know of your little campaign. Shouldn't that help your case?"

"I think it has, but they also know that I let the humans call me the Herald of Andraste and that I spend half my time arguing for peace, for building bridges. That makes me seem even more in league with the Chantry and Orlais than I was already. Loranil is open enough to the idea, but he is a minority—this clan seems to be not as open to humans as mine. Of course, the fact that we're on the _Dirtha'var'en_ in the middle of a _shemlen_ war doesn't help matters. Had we met in different circumstances, they might have been friendlier. It is no trouble."

Dorian considers that for a moment. "I suppose that is true. I just think it's a shame that you need to prove yourself to the people you are championing."

"Every clan is different," Leas says with a shrug and another smile. "But even if I gain their friendship, I suspect I shall not truly belong here. The mages make for good company—they are very interested in learning what I have learnt—but the others are almost a world apart. I do not belong among them." He speaks thoughtfully, and he gives no hints that this state of affairs troubles him.

For a moment, Dorian hesitates. Then he says, "Will it be the same for your own clan?"

Leas blows out a breath. "Potentially. I never fit in after I came back from the Blight. I'd seen too much of the world, allowed my horizons to expand beyond the boundaries of the camp. Now I have traversed most of southern Thedas, met so many good people I could never have met otherwise. Met _you_," he says, glancing at Dorian, and Dorian smiles briefly. "Going back will not be easy. But that is a thought for another time."

"Does it bother you? That you don't fit in?"

Another, longer pause, then Leas sighs. "I… sometimes," he says. Not far off, Iselen laughs again as he engages in a spirited debate with one of the warriors about the merits of swords versus maces—fitting in perfectly. "Mostly for Adhlean's sake. I don't want my isolation impacting him. But for myself? No. I am who I am, and I'm not a very good Dalish elf, at the end of the day. And that's all right. Sera and I have our disagreements, but she has the right of it in this: we need to live our lives as we choose, unburdened by the expectations of others. So long as I continue to look out for my people, who can object to that?"

"A fine philosophy, certainly," Dorian says, though he wonders if it really is as simple as Leas makes it out to be.

Leas smiles up at him and then drops his hand from his drink, fingers brushing against Dorian's before entwining with them. Dorian stares, then frantically turns to scan the camp, wondering—what if someone saw? "What are you doing?"

"I'm holding your hand. _Relax_, _arasha_, no one saw," Leas says lightly. "And no one will see. I've told you before that mages are rather isolated from their clans. The things we get up to that don't have to do with magic usually pass beneath notice." He squeezes his hand, but Dorian waits nearly half a minute longer before he lets himself relax and squeezes back.

"What about you?" Leas asks after a moment. "Does it ever bother you, that you don't fit in back in Tevinter?"

It's Dorian's turn to sigh, and he looks down at the ground. "Now and then," he admits, in the spirit of honesty. If this were anyone else, he would blow off the question with flippancy—but if Leas owes him the truth of how he feels, as they've agreed, then he owes him the same. "But I can't decide if what I feel is a desire to be just like the rest of them or a desire for the rest of them to be more like me. By which I mean, less murderous and corrupt and all the rest of it. Perhaps I shouldn't feel that way, but—"

"They're your people. It's only fair. I take it that means you miss Tevinter, as well?"

He nods slowly. "Everything I see here in the south—it's a reminder that things are done differently back home. For the moment, I'd rather be here than anywhere else, but… you've never seen Minrathous, Leas. Or Qarinus, or Carastes, or any of the other cities. It's like I walked out of one world and into another."

Leas gives him a sympathetic smile. "It certainly seems like a whole other world when you tell me about it. Well, I can't imagine anything in the northern _Dirtha'var'en_ compares. What about in Halin'sulahn and Enavuris? Does all the greenery remind you of anything?"

Dorian shakes his head. "They say Arlathan Forest is just as green, but I've never visited. The Eyes of Nocen and the Valarian Fields are green enough, but flatter, and they don't have as many trees. The Veil is stronger in both places, too—here, it always feels like I'm five seconds away from running into a demon. I'm honestly surprised we haven't seen so many Venatori."

"Small mercies," Leas says with another smile.

"You're not going to get much out of me about the Tevinter landscape, anyway," Dorian continues. "I'm as much of a city person back home as I am out here."

Leas chuckles, and they slip into a comfortable silence. Around the campfire, a song begins, joyful and melodious, and Leas joins in, his voice ringing loud and clear, a grin on his face as he sings along with his fellows. Dorian listens, understanding nothing but liking the sound, and when it is over, he smiles at Leas and gives him an appreciative nod. "You should do that more often. Your voice is quite fine," he says.

"I _do_," Leas says. "Just not where people can listen in. I'm not that sort of exhibitionist."

"Fair enough," he says, then he remembers the question he's been meaning to ask for the past day. "By the way, Leas… how are you? With the whole wandering around your would-be homeland, I mean. It can't have been easy."

There's another pause, and Leas looks away, blowing out a deep breath then finishing his ale. "It's… been a little difficult, I'll admit," he eventually says, slowly. "The things Iselen said… he wasn't… _entirely_ wrong. The Chantry memorials were… hurtful, as you can imagine. And seeing what has happened here, walking over ground drenched in elven blood…" He sighs and shakes his head. "I will admit, I've enjoyed walking around Halin'sulahn and Enavuris. The northern _Dirth_, no so much. It would have been hard even without all the undead."

Dorian nods. He wishes he could say he understands, but he's not so blind as to pretend he does. Whatever problems he had with his family, whatever isolation he suffered in Tevinter, he had still every privilege and comfort in the world; Leas never has. "What will you do with the 'memorials'? Do you plan to get them torn down?"

"It's an idea. But I'm also toying with putting up _real_ memorials, detailing the history of the March from the elven perspective. What was done, what we lost, what it meant for us, how shameful it is for the Chantry and Orlais to have turned on the ones who once marched with them against the might of Tevinter, to have rescinded Andraste's gift to us in the name of Andraste. And I'll put them right _next_ to the Chantry 'memorials'."

"Interesting. For the sake of dissonance?"

"Yes, exactly. As I told you once, even trash can be educational when compared with something finer. I'm hoping that seeing the truth next to Chantry propaganda will open people's eyes."

"People can be remarkably stubborn, Leas," Dorian warns him. "It may not be that easy."

"I know. But it's worth the attempt. I'd much rather turn something to my advantage and hope that it will produce results than destroy it and ensure that it _never_ will. That goes for the Chantry as well as for its propaganda."

"I can't imagine most of your people agree with that attitude."

Leas laughs and shakes his head. "No, and why not? I don't hold with hatred, but I can't blame anyone for hating the Chantry. I freely admit I'm a bit… unusual in wanting to see the Chantry reborn. It's just, well…"

Dorian looks at him as he seems to ponder his words. Their eyes meet. "Remember what I said about Alexius, months ago when we were talking in Haven?" Leas asks, and Dorian nods. "I said it was tragic that he had fallen so far from doing good, been twisted into something he was not by his baser emotions. The case is the same for those humans who took part in the Exalted Marches, even down to Amity."

His eyebrows rise. "Amity sounded like a very nasty piece of work if you ask me. She would have fit in perfectly among the magisters, as much as she decried them, I'm sure."

Leas smiles. "True. But people don't start out that way, I think, or if they do, it's only rarely. The greater part of the tragedy is my people's, no question, but… sometimes I wonder where we could be if the humans hadn't turned on us, if Orlais and the Chantry hadn't been so expansionistic. What if we'd been friends with the humans? What could we have achieved together? We'll never know. And all those humans who fought in the March, and people like Amity… they could have preached acceptance and used their position for good. Instead, they got swallowed up by their prejudices. My people paid the price for it, but it's _also_ depressing to consider what the humans could have been. I think it is, anyway. And I know, I know, bleeding heart and all, but am I wrong?"

Dorian considers his words for a long moment, then shakes his head. "No, I don't suppose you are. I often think the same of Tevinter. All the potential we possess, and even when we were at our apex, we squandered it."

"But you think your people can learn not to squander it."

"I _hope_ they do. It would take time, longer than my life probably. But I do. Do you believe the same of Orlais and the Chantry?"

Leas smiles, his blue eyes glittering as they always do whenever he talks about his hopes and ideals. "Yes. You would need to change them both to their _foundations_, but yes, I think so. I can't imagine any country in the world is purely evil, even if it has as many crimes to its name as Orlais, and the Chantry… founded as a tool for Orlesian expansion though it was, it has its uses. And I'm _not_ comfortable tearing down a major pillar of human society. It's been as important to them as it's been oppressive to us. Let them keep it, so long as it learns to stay out of our business."

Intriguing. Relic though Dorian holds the Chantry to be, he supposes Leas has an excellent point. "That would be something. If it were up to you, how would you change the Chantry?"

"It would not be easy," Leas admits. He licks his lips and gazes around the camp as another song begins. "There's much that needs to change. For a start, I would uproot it from its foundation in expansionism and rededicate it to charity and kindness. So long as it remains a tool of Orlesian expansion, the Chantry can never _truly_ change. That in itself would be a challenge, not least because the expansion is built into the very Chant of Light, and _rewriting_ the Chant is a rather different thing from naming Dissonant Verses. I would also have it strike down its ability to call Exalted Marches, restore the Canticle of Shartan, pay reparations to the elves and promise to stay out of our business, open the priesthood to all who wish to join, and maybe remove itself from the governance of the Circles. Perhaps most of all, I would see it preach the values that drew me to Andrastianism in the first place: mercy, forgiveness, atonement, second chances. But those are all vague goals. How you would accomplish all that… I'd need to discuss it with Cassandra and Leliana."

After he has done, Dorian nods and sucks his lip thoughtfully. "What of the elves themselves? How would you change things for them, theoretically?"

"I would see the Dales returned to them, though I don't know how I'd tackle the logistical issues involved," Leas says almost at once. He lets fall Dorian's hand and rolls his shoulders. "I _certainly_ don't know what I'd do with the humans already living there—I'd rather not kick them out. But _theoretically_, I would have the _Dirtha'var'en_ returned, and I would not isolate us from the world, nor would I let just anyone in. Chevaliers would be forbidden, at least in large numbers. As would templars and missionaries, sad though I am to say it. Diplomats, merchants, and anyone else would be allowed, however. Total isolation will not help us. And if another Blight ever comes, I would not have us stand by and watch, able to aid but refusing to. I can't blame the humans for being angry at us about that. As for those city elves who come to the _Dirth_ but do not wish to give up Andrastianism… that will be complicated. I would not allow a large number of templars or missionaries, but I would not force them to give up their faith." He pauses, musing. "Perhaps we could build a few chantries, run only by elves, answering only to the Divine, whoever she might be. But that would require the changes in the Chantry I mentioned. And, again, how you would _go_ about all this…"

"All the same, having an idea of what needs to be done is an excellent start," Dorian says. A very tall order, no question, to restore the Chantry and set up a new elven kingdom safe from the humans while not totally isolated from them. But the way Leas' eyes sparkle as he speaks, and how he gesticulates, and the enthusiasm and certainty that drip from his voice… they could convince even a true cynic. That Leas really _believes_ in it… it shines out of him, like sunlight. Or perhaps oozes out of him is the better phrase… "You've thought this through, I can tell."

"Even I know ideals and optimism aren't always enough," Leas says with a self-deprecating grin. "I _want_ our peoples to be able to co-exist, and I _want_ the Chantry to be better, just as I want Orlais and Tevinter to be better. And I'll put in the work to _make_ it happen. For my people, it's a necessity. For the Chantry… it's such a waste to destroy something that has even a chance of being rebuilt. Besides, what is more Andrastian than offering mercy and second chances and a possibility of atonement _to the Chantry itself_? The irony alone is too rich to pass up," he continues, and he chuckles.

Dorian laughs as well. "That alone is reason enough," he agrees. "What about forgiveness?"

A pause, then Leas shakes his head. "I don't know about that. Forgiveness is difficult when the crimes are still happening. I, personally, would be willing to extend my hand and my forgiveness if the Chantry reformed and it and the human nations acknowledged their crimes and took steps to make amends. But that would be my choice, just as it is my choice to worship both the Maker and the elven gods. It cannot be forced on my people."

Understandable. "So this is what you have been leading to, ever since you became Inquisitor?"

"Yes. And now that I have seen what I have seen here in the _Dirtha'var'en_, I shall redouble my efforts when we return. I may not be a good Dalish elf, but let no one—not even Iselen—say I am not looking out for them!"

"I don't think they could have a better advocate if they tried," Dorian says warmly, though he knows his opinion counts for very little. "At least something has come of this entire experience, I guess?"

Leas nods, smiling once again. "Quite," he says. "Now come. The night is still young, and I've yet to hear your opinion on our alcohol."

"Shameful, to be sure," Dorian says with a laugh, and he lets Leas take his hand again and pull him over to the casks. They spend the rest of the night talking together and laughing, as if they're not in the middle of Leas' would-be homeland in the middle of a human war.

* * *

**Translations**

_"Elvyr, isa'ma'lin."_: "Easy, brother."

"_Eolasan. Mar'abelas re emma tas."_: "I know. Your sorrow is mine too."

_"Da'lath'in."_: "Little heart."

_"Din'el."_: "No more."

All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.


End file.
